Two wallets, one with his real ID and one with two burner IDs that have never been used.

$5,000 cash, broken up and hidden in the wallets and in various places upon his person.

His favorite pair of sunglasses.

Every single bespoke suit is quietly hanging the dark cavern of his closet. The credit cards remain neatly stacked inside a desk drawer, sharing space with a sleek cellphone (memory wiped) and a similarly styled laptop (also wiped). The infamous bullet-resistant vest is stowed away in the trunk at the end of the bed. Each of the three handguns he’s owned along with their holsters and ammunition are locked in a safe in the wall. The combination is already half forgotten.

In the dim light of the bedroom, Namjoon can just make out his reflection in the full-size mirror on the wall. The simple blue t-shirt, black sweatshirt, and baggy, gray sweatpants are odd and somewhat ungainly. He found them deep in the back of his dresser and the garments don’t fall into the usual crisp lines he’s used to with his suits. Though the reflection is dim, he’s more of a phantom than he’s ever been. The prominent tattoos that crowd for space on his arms and crawl up his collarbone and neck have disappeared beneath strategically placed band-aids and his purposefully arranged sleeves.

His eyes wander up away from his chest to pick out the darker eyebrows and the pits that are his eyes in the dark, but Namjoon jerkily turns away. One day. Today is not that day.

With these things –the wallets, money, shades, and the clothes on his back- Namjoon slips from his room, down the hallway, and out the front door. No doubt the cameras that blanket the complex will catch him leaving, but once he disappears, it won’t matter.

The night air is arm and balmy, slightly stifling in his sweatshirt. The wallets are bulging and awkward with one in each pocket.

Namjoon begins to walk.

The city is completely different when not surrounded by two armed body guards and the protection of a suit or stiff bullet-resistant vest. Vulnerability is strange to him, something he’s feeling strongly now thanks to his clothes, lack of a trusty firearm, and no cellphone.

It’s nice, he decides, listening to his footsteps crunch across the occasional stick or patch of gravel. For the first time in as long he can remember, the beauty of the moon calls his attention to the velvety dark sky. It’s a silver dollar, high up and bright enough he can nearly see his shadow on the sidewalk.

Forever. From this moment on, he will have forever to look at the moon instead of over his shoulder.

Footsteps.

His whole body tenses, coils like a spring. Is he willing to kill to escape this place? Faces flit across his mind, some more acceptable losses than others. His hand swipes across his cheek, remembering.

“Namjoon.” It’s said quietly with a tone of calm, trusting inquiry.

He turns. The sound of his first name is odd, but he shouldn’t be surprised. The man who’s caught him is Min Yoongi, a member Namjoon has been personally training to take a high position in the group a year or two from now. The sleepy bastard has always been more observant than he lets on.

“Yoongi.”

A slight breeze ruffles his hair, but it’s already askew and he has no one to fix it for. There’s no image to maintain, no one to impress anymore. The second his beat-up sneakers left the compound the required protocol fell away, stripped by the night breeze and the pale glow of the moon.

Yoongi steps closer. This hour of the night and he’s still clad in slacks and a dress shirt. “Where’s your detail?” he asks. Namjoon’s unusual appearance has clearly perturbed him. Yoongi needs to clamp the lid on his expressions and body language or he won’t last.

Namjoon’s eyes bore into Yoongi. He squares his shoulders. For someone so young, the other man has cultivated a dark, ensnaring presence that Namjoon refuses to fall into. The brief ness of being without his suit and guns from earlier is back with a vengeance and his body immediately compensates by looming over Yoongi as best as he’s able.

It doesn’t matter, in the end. He’s not turning back.

“My detail is not here.” His words are clipped. “You shouldn’t be here either.”

To his credit, Yoongi only crumples a little under the weight of his substantial glare. “Where are you going?” he challenges, swaying backward almost unnoticeably.

“I’m going out.”

“Out?”

“Out.”

It’s slow, but Namjoon can see the true meaning of his words gradually seep into Yoongi’s consciousness. Just as the younger man is about to speak, Namjoon takes a sharp step into his space, crowding him back. “And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll forget you saw me tonight.” His voice is harsh and direct.

“But the cameras…” Yoongi protests vaguely, thrown off balance and badly hiding his bewilderment.

“Erase them or tell everyone I was gone before you could catch me. It doesn’t matter.” Namjoon presses a hand into Yoongi’s shoulder and gives him a gentle shove. “We won’t be seeing each other again.”

Like he’s been nailed to the ground, Yoongi watches with wide eyes as Namjoon walks away, a stranger in body and mind.

Namjoon feels the stare on his back. It’s the final weight he must shed to discover if he’s strong enough for this, strong enough to walk away.

One step, two. Three, four, five, and he drags his eyes up from the sidewalk. He’s leaving with his head held high. Buildings loom before him and he can picture the complex getting smaller and smaller behind him, swallowed up by shadows that are never fully eradicated no matter the number of spotlights.

He turns the corner and the phantom fingers of his former home disappear all at once like a switch has been flipped. Namjoon’s legs want to shake, but he’s spent too long controlling every facet of his body to allow it. Instead, he keeps walking and walking and walking away from everything he’s known for the past fifteen years.

The idling taxi he eventually stumbles upon is almost unreal, like he’s unwittingly wandered into a movie. After brief negotiation with the mellow driver, the cab flows down the highway in an easy rush and deposits him upon the deserted sidewalk outside the airport.  

The building is cavernous and familiar. One last look at the quiet streets is enough to propel him inside and approach the nearest staffed ticket counter.

“When’s your next flight?” He barely manages to sound polite.

The ticketing agent only blinks once in surprise before her customer service training kicks in. “Where are you flying to?”

“Anywhere. Wherever the next flight out of here is going,” he replies.

Her skeptical look is almost completely masked, but Namjoon catches it and smiles grimly to himself. To her credit, she gamely types into the computer and doesn’t ask any more questions. “We have a direct flight to Sarkosa boarding in ten minutes.”

“That in the south?”
 

“Four hours straight south.” She smiles, half-sincerely.

Namjoon pulls the wallet with the burner IDs from his pocket. “Sign me up.”

Freedom costs $375 cash.